Beyond These Walls

There are sights I wish I could see

She told him in no more than a whisper 

Some more than others 

Not the setting of a crimson sunset 

Or the outstretched wings of a majestic jay  

But the inside of a watermelon 

The color of its juice 

The bruise I feel on my thigh

The color of my hair 
I am told is rich chestnut 

I wish to see past what nature presents to the world

He responded with frustration 

The currents of electricity that buzz so ferociously 

Atoms that compose the art of my body 

The rays of light that enable me to see  

All the abstractions that shape my thoughts 

Love. Time. Pain. 

Not the vastness of the ocean

She eagerly rejoined 

Or the radiance of leaves in spring

Not the pure white flakes that fall in December 

Or the tallest mountain ever to be discovered 

But the words written in my favorite novel

The shape of my mother’s face 

A candle slowly guttering 

You want to see beyond that?  

I have seen a freshly made bed 

He spoke to her gently 

The swirl at the top of an ice cream cone 

The grey clouds that gather before a storm
Though it has only made me want more 

How is the moon the mother of tides
Without even a touch? 
How does an invisible weight tug me back down? 

Why is the eye tricked by illusions ? 

If I were to wake one day

Her voice began to shake 

With eyes that worked like yours 

I suppose I would want to see more

More than stripes, and dots, and colors    

And if I were to wake tomorrow 
His tone turned tender   

With pools of darkness instead of clarity 
The moments I now find trifling
Would become the fantasies that haunt you  

Inspired by All the Light We Cannot See, 

Anthony Doerr 

Series of HAIKUS

(Try to focus on the picture placed next to it when reading) 

*still working on them 





A Drought 

The rainforest sleeps

when one green leaf awakes to

a drop! then cascade.














Temptations

Clusters of cupcakes

glare at me with their rainbow

Sprinkles. Just. One. Bite. 
















Details


Inside my mansion  

I sit in my plush white robe

Wishing I bought the gold one 

A Letter to my Father

Jumbles of Chex mix scattered through our hallways 

from the childish food fights we always had after dinner 

you threw, so I threw

you laughed, as did I

Crayons stained the playroom walls

for when mom was not looking, it was a free for all

no rules or limits 

only fun

Music filled each corner of the living room
as our legs and arms spasmed up and down 

you carried a light in your eyes

one that burned so bright, it seeped into mine

So father, listen

for I have seen your candle burn out

and am here to tell you of all the wonders 

that you have so kindly shown me

The power of restraint:

when I spilled my thick purple grape juice 

All along the front of your new white pants 

you poured me another glass

The value of patience:

hours felt like minutes to you 

for you never felt trapped by time

each moment was significant 

The importance of storytelling:

even the most trivial affairs

you told with such eloquence
like your intricate explanation of how important a thumb is
   

The purpose of adversity: 

through times of suffering 

your fist did not clench

because grief is a test created for us  

You acted as a father should

cared for me when it was you who needed it 

so if you are struggling to recognize your purpose  
understand that you have gifted me with mine   

The Body's Yearning For Truth

The Body's Yearning For Truth

               How do lies speak? 

In the unusual tremble of the hands

And in the shivering that follows it; by

The incomplete glance of a troubled eye—

The heavy breathing that manifests signs of 

slander—

That is how lies speak. 

               How do lies speak? 

By the hammer-like beating inside the chest, 
And the drops of warm sweat that shine, and trickle 

While the guilt, like a fierce intruder, 
Flows among the artery’s sea of blood, disrupting it’s

course 

Breathing it’s own breath, and forcing the visible proof of

false words— 

That is how lies speak. 

               How do lies speak? 

In the inauthenticity of the voice—

As it soars to a fluttering squeal

In the foot that taps out a nervous rhythm—

In the laughter that leaps roughly out, in the telling of a mournful 

story, 

And through a flush of worry that stains the cheeks the color of 

cherry 

That is how lies speak. 

               How do lies speak?

Through the effort the mind must make—

Each time it is asked to retell past remarks; past fables 

And the burden the heart carries, after each thread is lain;
In the tumult that turns in the
stomach 

That is how lies speak. 

                How do lies speak?

Through the way the body betrays each fabrication

And in the way the body can say what words cannot 

That is how lies speak. 

*Inspired by Ella Wheeler Wilcox's, "Love's Language." 

Time Surges On

I built a house completely out of ice

I shoveled, piled until the walls were high 

I crawled and stacked with hands as red as rouge

I fell and stumbled, labored through the cold

The milky snowflakes fell upon my cheeks

They flurried, floated, danced upon my tongue

Dissolving quickly into drops of rain 

I drowned my worries into each wet flake 

Inside my igloo lay a quilt of blue  

And flames of orange that burned the dark and cold 

I sat beneath my roof from night to dawn 

And prayed the cold would freeze all tides, and time 

Though soon the winter faded into spring 

And melted down my work, my pride, my home 

Downfall

Misfortune lived on her doorstep 

acted as a force against all things 

favorable in her eyes

Superstition scrubbed the sanity from her mind

washed away all lucidity 

replaced it with apprehension 

Death always lay right around the corner 

loomed over the people she loved

stole each ray of light 

she thought was finally hers 

but over her head soared that familiar black crow 

with it’s deep, dark eyes and vacant soul 

Prayers buried themselves into the ground 

built a fortress to fight her pleads

what good was begging to a god 

who gave no sign her entreaties were received?

The sound of her late husband’s cries played a dissonant tune 

he was stabbed seven times in the shower  

disrupting their far from perfect honeymoon

on the day of their wedding she told him

it was bad luck to look his bride in the eyes

he laughed with such great power, and brought his soft green irises to hers 

The sharp memory her father once had, vanished into the crisp air

she shook him fiercely, screamed, “I am your daughter”

but she was only seen as an intruder.

during the innocent games of her childhood

he always rolled three sixes 

a sign of the end times, a sign of all that was to come

The limbs of her ten year old child, lay lifeless on her kitchen floor

brown blood slept silently in a puddle, untouched

as if it were a guest in her home 

at the age of four, he cracked his father’s looking glass

trying to swat a fly on the wall

the premonition of imminent disaster overshadowed his every move   

The vision in her eyes wandered away 

perhaps to see what the happier side of life looked like

she was now blind, with not but one soul to remember yesterday 

She never rolled any sixes
never broke any loooking glass
maybe her tragedies were not curses
merely hardships and misfortunes 

If this life of hers was planned to plummet

if the ill omens were not but her fate 

who can find comfort from an idea so chilling?

that some lives are destined to detonate.

Caffeinated Love

Lip stick stains 

on the rim of my coffee cup

A vibrant red 

drawing my eyes to the tracks of my addiction 

The scent of freshly brewed java 

travels through my nose 

carrying with it 

traces of regret 

My weakness 

rich, dark 

irresistible flavor 

Don’t drink it

intuition cries out 

in a high pitched screech 

Though my body takes over 

and my lips grow closer 

nearly touching the silk like liquid 

I know so well 

Resist.

Flashing images of
frosted eyes and
insomniac nights 

chase away the desire for another taste 

Caffeine does not need me as I need it 

Although the ghosts 

of my past mistakes 

are not strong enough 

I think of those luscious curves
the way that earthy aroma tempts me
in every way

The insides of my stomach turn 

as if they have grown hands of their own 

and are waiting 

to reach out and consume
the sweet, sweet taste
of bliss

As sweat makes a home for itself on my forehead 

as my eyes tire from the futile attempt 

to overcome this battle 

my strength escapes me 

My lips grow closer once more 

and the warm contents 
of the only cure 
I have ever known

voyage through my pipes 

with graceful fluidity 

as they say hello 

to the brown covered paths they saw 

only one hour ago 

The craving vanishes, 

dissolves into a soft
momentary sensation
of breathtaking pleasure

Intuition is defeated once more      

and I sink back into the arms
of the only one who has ever known
just how my body gives in 

Fool's Paradise

Around 1996 My parents decided that 

they wanted another child. 

I imagine my mother on the verge of tears,

explaining to my father how

all she ever wanted was a daughter.

My father responding with a simple, 

“Me too honey” 

Around 1967 My father escaped from Egypt. 

The Six Day War broke apart families,

stole children’s freedom, and stripped 

the light from my father’s eyes. All he 

wanted after the war was to build a family with 

so much love. The type of love that would allow him to forget about the pains of his past. 

Around 1966 My mother was selling 

lemonade on the small streets of Buffalo.  

She acquired a liking for music, medicine 

and literature. The only hardships she 

was ever faced with was her family’s struggle 

for money, which soon prevented her from 

attending the Ivy’s she had been accepted to.

Around 1993 My father laid eyes on my mother 

in a Synagogue in Philadelphia. Neither knew how to 

communicate through the language barrier, but apparently 

 “It wasn't about the language.” Later that year, they

were married. First, a big brown eyed boy joined the family. 

A year and a half later, another boy, with slightly smaller eyes, 

but almost identical to the first. My father’s wish was only partly

coming true. He had a family, but he could not stop the nightmares,

which played for him each memory in intricate detail. 

Around the end of 1997 I was born. The 

precious, pink princess that both my parents 

longed for. I was finally tangible, and not a figment 

of their imagination. I was small, 

delicate, and beautiful. 

I was theirs. 

Around 2001 I played in my first soccer game. 

From the moment I touched the sole of 

my foot to the ball, I knew that I would 

be playing that sport until the end of my existence. 

With worried eyes, and heavy hearts, my 

parents drove me to my games. Where was their

delicate, little princess? I was slipping away. 

Around 2012 I felt the wrath of my parent’s criticism. 

I needed to involve myself in activities that would make 

me more “presentable,” more “relatable.” According 

to my father, I was unladylike. He said, “In Egypt, women 

didn't play sports.” And for my mother, she wanted me

to fit all of the expectations she had set for me before I 

was born. Together, it felt like hate, rather than concern. 

Around 2015 I had my heart broken for the first time.
No food would settle in my stomach 

no comedy would make me laugh. My brothers carried

me through my heartache. They were my crutches, my 

hope. And soccer was my reason to stay sane. When I
played, nothing outside that field mattered. But my 

parents watched as I desiccated. They told me 

it was my fault. They warned me after all. I 

should have been better at preserving the

people I loved in my life. I should stop 

trying to be someone that I am not. 

Around 2016 I was convinced it was my problem. 

It was a new year, and I still felt so lonely. My heart 

was worn out. I felt numb. Maybe there 

was something wrong with me. Were my parents right?

Was I not being true to myself? If only I recognized that 

the faults lied with them, not me. 

Around 2017 I learned that my parents were having issues 

in their marriage. It will get better, I can fix them, I repeated 

to myself. But I was the root of their problem. I was the one

causing them sorrow. I was not delicate. I was not “perfect 

and pink.” I was just me. 

Around 2018 I grew the strength to tell my parents 

all of the ways in which they had hurt me.

I said, “I cannot mend all of your scars Daddy. 

I cannot live up to expectations set not for 

me, but for your idea of me, momma.” I do 

wish the conversation ended like those

shown on tv, where I am at last comforted, and 

accepted for who I am. Although, that night, I made a

vow to myself to be that delicate, pink princess, despite 

my craving for a more memorable life.